


she loves me (she loves me not)

by tangerinick



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Acxa is pure salt, Allergies, F/F, Mutual Pining, Valentine's Day, for Blossom: a vld femslash zine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-16
Updated: 2018-09-16
Packaged: 2019-07-13 05:15:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,742
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16011032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tangerinick/pseuds/tangerinick
Summary: Acxa keeps finding flowers from someone named ROSE. Acxa is also very, very allergic to those particular flowers. Alternatively: Ezor has shitty handwriting, tries to woo Acxa, and Zethrid has no shame.forBlossom: a VLD femslash zine





	she loves me (she loves me not)

**Author's Note:**

> serious talk: i'd marry zethrid. but this written pre-season 7, so i guess ezor can marry her now. i love my lesbian space pirates. 
> 
> for [Blossom: a VLD femslash zine](https://blossom-zine.tumblr.com)

_10th of February._

Acxa can’t stop scowling.

She’s pretty sure it’s a magical fluke caused by some lovesick fool’s inability to remember a locker number. How they got into hers without knowing the code, she doesn’t even know—but honestly, she doesn’t care. All that matters is that now she has a pollen-infested locker, there’s a nasty scratch in her throat, her eyes are watering like she’s surrounded by itchy smoke, and the _sniffling_.

The flowers seem to have marinated in her locker overnight, because the moment Acxa’d slammed open the metal door, it had been Allergy Central Station. It’s all over her books and Acxa’s favorite sweater—a vivid cerulean— that the flowers had been lounging on is unwearable until she washes it. _Sniff, sniff_.

“Shit,” Acxa swears loud enough for the person next to her to look up alarmingly and hurry back to their own business. She throws the sweater into the bottom of her bag as she sweeps away the scattered bouquet of ragtag flowers with the back of her hand until they tumble over the floor, a complete mess. Acxa barely even looks at them as she picks them up like someone would hold a live bomb, and drops them unceremoniously into the nearest trash can.

Valentine’s day isn’t that bad, Acxa can appreciate the sentiment. It’s cute. But ragweed allergies are already bad enough during pollen season—she doesn’t need some romantic sap making her life harder than usual.

It’s only during her fruitful attempt to air out her locker with a messy binder, papers flapping about, does she notice the note, hidden in the back, that must have come attached to the bouquet. She sniffs again as she picks it up, uncrumples the folds, and turns it over.

_ROSE_ , it says, in messy, scrawled handwriting that Acxa has to squint to decipher. There’s no one on her—albeit very short—list of friends with a name remotely like that. And definitely not the one person to whom she would probably forgive the allergy _faux-pas_ : sharp eyes, the color of her favorite sweater, and an even sharper sense of humor.

Acxa closes her locker with a resounding slam, and prays the mysteriously mistaken sap called _Rose_ doesn’t make the same mistake twice.

  


_11th of February._

 

“You have flowers!” Zethrid bellows across the hall as soon as Acxa leaves the classroom. Acxa takes one look at Zethrid’s shit-eating grin and makes a run for it, legs flying, but a sturdy grip hangs onto the collar of her blouse and drags her back so fast Acxa’s pretty sure a button pops off the top.

“I should never have told you the combination,” Acxa mutters as Zethrid deposits her back down like a petulant cat, before rummaging—Acxa tries not to flinch as Zethrid knocks over some of her carefully-stacked books—around to gather up several scattered flowers. Zethrid treats them with unusual care as she thrusts them out at Acxa, who dodges back like they’re on fire.

“Nope.”

“You don’t want them?” Zethrid frowns, taken aback.

“Allergies,” Acxa mutters, heaving a deep sigh as she shoves past Zethrid’s large frame to see the extent of the damage. It’s not too bad, not like yesterday. This bouquet—daisies, Acxa remarks—is a little different, probably store-bought instead of haphazardly picked like yesterday’s, and Acxa only has to wipe off a few stray petals. That doesn’t mean Acxa appreciates the possible abuse to her respiratory senses, or the already-beginning itch around her eyes as she starts inhaling metallic, stale locker-air.

“Ah,” Zethrid tips her head a little, and stretches one buff arm past Acxa to snatch something before Acxa can think of stopping her. “But there’s a note! From your secret _admirer._ ” She starts making smacking kissing noises, but Acxa cuts her off.

“There’s no admirer,” Acxa tells her. “It’s from some person called _Rose_. We don’t know a Rose.”

“It could be a nickname,” Zethrid suggests, manhandling Acxa so she can shove the note into Acxa’s jean pocket. “Remember: it’s a _secret_ admirer. They could be planning on revealing themselves on Valentine’s day. Actually, I’m pretty sure they are. Isn’t that how the movies go?”

“You have to stop watching chick-flicks,” Acxa says, and then thinks about it. This is two days in a row. And a nickname would seem logical. From who?—Acxa is at loss about that. But the idea that this isn’t just a coincidence is starting to seem more plausible.

A thought occurs to her. “Why would someone named Rose be leaving me daisies? They’re two completely different flowers,” Acxa wonders.

“Heck if I know,” Zethrid says, then groans as if she’s recalling a particularly bad memory. “One you pick on the side of the road. The other you find strewed on Lotor’s bed the night after Valentine’s day.”

“True story?” Acxa asks, tidying up Zethrid’s mess.

“True story,” Zethrid bemoans. “You don’t even want to know.”

Suddenly, Acxa sneezes loudly, and swears. “ _Crap_ . How did they even get into my locker? Only you know the combination, right?”  Acxa takes a muddled step back, right into Zethrid. She freezes like ice, slowly turning around to find Zethrid has her caged in, one arm against her locker.  “Zethrid, _please_ tell me you're not the one who—”

Zethrid leans in. She’s so, so close, dark eyes focused on Acxa’s mouth. Acxa—she can’t move, not under Zethrid’s looming frame, not when Zethrid leans in like she’s—like she’s about to—

“I’ll only ever be gay for your eyeliner skills,” Zethrid whispers, hot breath fanning out over Acxa’s temple. Then she claps Acxa amicably on the shoulder, which is sort of like being hit with a sledgehammer.

Acxa yelps, and shoves her away as Zethrid absolutely loses it, doubling over with laughter that echoes through the hallway. “That’s not funny!” she screeches, face heating up like a radiator.

“ _Your face!_ ” Zethrid exclaims, body shaking.

Acxa can’t help but smile. Then sneeze.

  


_12th of February._

 

“This has to _stop_ ,” Acxa says, flinging the bouquet onto the table as she collapses with a heavy sigh into the only empty space left in the booth. It’s their traditional Friday brunch meal, the only time during the weekend when everyone’s free periods match up long enough to get a collective meal with milkshakes.

 A few flowers fall apart and skitter off; Zethrid lunges to put them back. Acxa pulls out a tissue and makes a loud, unflattering snort. “Throw them away,” she directs at Zethird. In the corner, Ezor recoils, obviously surprised. “I tried, I tried keeping them around, but I can’t. I don’t care _who_ the secret admirer is: I’m _this_ close to slapping their stupid anonymous face.”

Ezor looks at her, face flushed with mirth. “Are you okay?”

“No, I’m not. Some asshole keeps leaving me flowers.” Narti lifts her hood up a little to pull an _awww_ face, and Acxa glares. “No. I’m allergic as crap. Now all my stuff is a mess.”

Ezor laughs, and shares a look with Zethrid. Acxa’s pretty sure they’re making fun of her. “But it’s such a nice gesture!” Ezor exclaims. “Someone trying to warm your heart through flowers, isn’t that a _tiny_ bit romantic?”

Acxa rolls her eyes, and steals Zethrid’s giant, strawberry-pink milkshake. “No.”

Narti nudges Ezor, who coughs and says, “You have no clue who it is?”

“There was some note, but I don’t know the name. And I really couldn’t care less; whoever it is, I’m not interested.”

“Not even a little?” Ezor smiles, Acxa’s heart does a little flip, and the voice in the back of her mind chants _liar liar liar,_ because Acxa _would_ be interested, but only if it were the girl before her. Zethrid grabs her milkshake back from Acxa, who can’t find it within herself to tear her eyes away.

“Not remotely,” Acxa answers. And it’s basically the truth. Almost. Because there’s no way it could be Ezor. Because it’s _Ezor_ ; bright and fun and giggly and a little rough around the edges. Acxa feels _things_ —happy, fluffy, warm things that make her want to punch stuff—when she’s around Ezor. Sometimes, when they spend a little too much time around each other, get a little close, Acxa is left feeling raw and warm, like a sunburn. But there’s no way someone like _Ezor_ would gravitate towards _Acxa_. Opposites don’t actually attract, they’re not magnets.

“I’ve tried convincing her,” Zethrid mutters to Ezor, sympathetically patting her on the back. Acxa shoves the flowers to her end of the table, and steals fries off Narti’s plate. “Sorry.”

“Isn’t it the thought that counts? I mean, these are _Gerber_ daisies!”

Acxa does a double-take. “ _Garble_ daisies?”

“Ger-ber. Look,” Ezor softly traces a fingernail over one of the small petals. “Daisies usually signify cheerfulness, and these are especially supposed to make people happy because they’re so bright.”

“Well, they’ve only made me _angry_ ,” Acxa complains, reaching over the table for the milkshake again; Zethrid bats away her hands. “Daisies are one of the worst flowers for my allergies.”

Zethrid lets out a very loud, undignified snort, but Ezor’s eyes are bright, amused by Acxa’s reaction. “So much unnecessary hate.”

Zethrid perks up all of a sudden, wiggling her eyebrows suggestively. “How do you even know all of this, Ezor?”

Ezor lifts her chin up a little bit, shooting her a challenging look. “I have other interests, you know.”

“I thought your only interest was- _Ow_!” Acxa watches, bemused, as Ezor lands a particularly sharp punch on Zethrid’s right arm. Zethrid rubs the spot, glowering, but Ezor doesn’t apologise, and they share a loaded look. Acxa suppresses a sliver of weird, irrational jealousy, but takes advantage of the distraction to reclaim Zethrid’s milkshake.

“Anyway,” Ezor continues, back on her quest to convince Acxa to appreciate her secret admirer. “It’s a little cute, right? Come one, put away the grumpy face,” she giggles, waving around a finger, “be really honest.’

“No. I just wish they would stop.”

Ezor slumps back in her chair with a sigh, feebly reaching out towards Narti’s plate to steal what’s left. Out of the corner of Acxa’s eyes, she sees Narti bury her head in her hands. “Such a cold, cold heart,” Zethrid notes, dismissively, then glances in front of her, confused to see the table empty.

“It froze. Because of your milkshake.” Acxa smirks, and takes a deliberate sip.

Ezor almost chokes on a fry.

  


_13th of February._

 

Acxa opens her locker cautiously that morning, tissue over her nose and mouth, fully expecting to get a lungful of pollinated air.

_Nothing._ She flips over papers, checks behind files, but there’s not a petal in sight. Acxa breathes a sigh of relief.

“You sound happy,” a voice says, close enough that Acxa whirls around in shock, taking a startled step back into her locker.

“Ezor,” Acxa breathes, heart thundering. Ezor’s ridiculously close. But then Acxa frowns, “Aren’t you supposed to be in class?”

Ezor shrugs. “Class can wait today. I had to give you something,” she says, and Acxa jumps again when a warm hand touches hers. There’s the crinkle of paper and a note is pressed between her fingers. She looks down, surprised.

_ROSE_. In handwriting Acxa can suddenly remember from carefully inscripted birthday cards, letters during summer vacation, or post-its inside borrowed books. Just as illegible. But Ezor can’t be—”Rose?”

“Roze,” Ezor says, emphasizing the _Z_.

“Your handwriting sucks,” Acxa tells her, brandishing the note. “That’s a squiggle, not a letter. _Roze—_ you know that roses aren’t the same as daisies, right?”

“Roze is Ezor spelled backward. I thought it was funny, it’s like an emordnilap.”

“A _what_.” It comes out a little strangled. Acxa’s having a situation that she hasn’t fully grasped yet, because things like this don’t happen to her. She doesn’t get what she wants, she isn’t supposed to get the girl. This isn’t a Disney movie—although Disney doesn’t usually feature cute gay romance anyway.

Ezor laughs, bright and loud. “That’s palindrome spelled backwards. It’s when you spell a word backward and get a new word.”

“That’s—okay. Okay.” Her annoying allergy admirer is Ezor. Who’s also annoying most of the time, but in a way that makes Acxa want to kiss her.

“I thought it was funny! And that maybe, maybe—if you were hoping it was me—you’d get it.”

“Well, I’m sorry,” Acxa says. “I was too busy _being allergic_. You could’ve just told me.”

“Yeah,” Ezor shifts a little, unexpectedly abashed. “But I wanted to be really romantic about this. Then you seemed so upset yesterday—”

“You just had to get me daisies, didn’t you,” Acxa complains, interrupting, because even a pretty girl can’t cancel out her annoyance, apparently. “One of the most allergy-provoking flowers.”

“They had a meaning, which I told you! And, you know, I could pick most of them. As much as I’m trying to woo you, I’m also broke.”

“Woo me? That’s still a word?”

“It sounds classier than wanting to smash my face into yours—which I want by the way, if that wasn’t totally clear already. Or hold your hand, if that’s not your thing. But I guess I could also say I’m trying to court you.” It comes out a little provokingly, like that teasing, sly smile that Acxa can’t stop looking at. Acxa clutches the note with ROZE a little tighter.

“You’re not using the word court. Or woo.”

“Well, in that case, you have two options; either you deny my _courtship_ ,” Ezor stresses, grin growing, glowing as Acxa’s eyes flicker back up. ”Or, you go on a date with me.”

“There’s a third option,” Acxa says.

“There is?” Ezor frowns.

Something sharp hooks behind Acxa’s ribs, dragging her heart into her throat as she leans forward, forward even more into Ezor’s space. “Yeah. Smashing my face into yours.”

Ezor gapes, eyes wide and cheeks flushed.

_Yes_ , Acxa thinks, as the note flutters from her hands and to the floor, forgotten. Kissing Ezor is like sleeping under the sun. Slow and burning.

  


_14th of February._

 

“You are _such_ a sap,” Zethrid bemoans. Acxa swats her on the arm, privately thanking Narti for Ezor’s locker combination as she rifles around in Ezor’s locker, setting everything into place. “It hasn’t even been a day.”

“It’s Valentine’s.” Acxa sticks out her tongue, acting childish. “This is revenge.”

Zethrid rolls her eyes. “Oh please. There isn’t any revenge in this. You’re cheesy.”

“Let me have my fun,” Acxa winks, and smiles when her phone lets out a _meow_ —Narti’s ringtone, a warning for Ezor’s impending arrival. She snaps the door closed and leans against the lockers nonchalantly, watching intently as a familiar pink hairdo rounds the corner, and eyes—that she’s now seen up close and personal, what a great life—fix on them immediately through the crowd of students.

“What are you doing?” Ezor asks, bouncing up. Acxa reels her in for a quick kiss and holds her there, close. Honestly, Acxa’s really, really happy about this new touching thing so far, because Ezor’s known her at her grumpiest, and likes it, apparently. Their relationship can only go up for now.

“Open your locker,” Acxa smirks, and nods towards it. Ezor narrows her eyes.

“What did you do?” Ezor detaches herself to fiddle with the lock, cautiously pulling open the door. A spill of color falls out, stems and petals galore, flooding over their shoes and the floor. She lets out a surprised yell, loud and boisterous. Narti claps. Zethrid, grinning just as wide as Acxa, picks one up and hands it to Ezor.

“You gave up yesterday, I had to pick up the ball,” Acxa says as Ezor peers at the flower curiously, slowly realising what’s wrong with it.

“This is _plastic_ ,” Ezor accuses with an angry sort of happiness, brandishing the flower like a sword. “You filled my locker with fake daisies!”

“Be my girlfriend?” Acxa asks, unashamed.

Ezor mock-glares, then picks at the flower. Acxa stills, disturbed, as she starts tearing off the petals, one by one, muttering quietly. She leans in to listen—and laughs.

“She loves me, she loves me not,” Ezor says. Acxa’s heart does a weird little stutter, but then Ezor gets to the last petal, ripping it off with a certain finality. “She loves me. _Yes_. I’ll be your girlfriend.”

Acxa can’t help but smile. But this time, she doesn’t sneeze.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



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